The Crack in the Pavement
by alaine.105
Summary: In which Reichenfeels are made several times worse and then erased from existence, but there /is/ a happy ending. Rated 'T' only for blood and tears.
1. Chapter 1

The Crack in the Pavement

Angela Laine

Chapter 1

John ran to his friend, pushing through the small crowd that had gathered; through the doctors and nurses that had rushed out of the hospital to tend to the fallen man and secretly carry out the instructions that he'd given them. John took Sherlock's pulse: nothing over nothing. What had driven him to jump? Was it Moriarty? Stupid question; of _course_ it was Moriarty. That didn't make it any easier for him, though. John wasn't ready for this – he would never be ready for it.

Neither would Sherlock – the look on John's face was unbearable – but he was even less ready for what would happen next. The pool of blood around Sherlock's head trickled into a fault in the pavement and started to drain away into it. Sherlock felt a tug as the blood clung to his hair like a lifeline. The pull lessened and was replaced by a tingling sensation that he could feel in his very bones. Against his will, Sherlock's eyebrows snapped together in a frown and he blinked, aware of a bright light hovering like a film over his eyes. He turned his head slightly to look at the now-glowing sidewalk crack under his head. John's face swam through the light and Sherlock could see several different emotions waging war on John's features as the doctor saw his friend was still alive.

"Not for much longer," a hopeless and confused Sherlock thought as he felt his very essence gently floating away. He battled for control of his mind as his will, too, began to leave him. Sherlock felt a curious and needy eagerness invade the shadows of his brain, and he knew it was trying to replace his urge to fight.

A new, harsher light penetrated his retina, and he heard a familiar – and scared? – voice suggest, "Sherlock? Sherlock, close your eyes if you can hear me." Sherlock wrestled back a bit of his earthly sight and realized his good pal John was shining a torch in his eyes. He flinched, blinking rapidly, and John said, "Yes, that's it, Sherlock. Now, listen to me –" there was that panicky sound again – "I want you to _close_ your eyes. Don't open them." Why was it so important? Why would he want to go away from the light? And his best friend? And then – _close_ my eyes? That couldn't be a medical opinion, could it?

"No! For a concussion, you're supposed to keep his eyes open!" said one of the Bart's doctors.

"It's not a concussion. Close your eyes, Sherlock!"

One part of Sherlock's brain thought, well, it was important to John, somehow, and suddenly realizing that there was no escape from the light anyway, it wanted to succumb to the peace of letting go. Sherlock still retained part of that massive brain of his, however, and he fought with all he was worth to hold on to it. He did some quick, deep thinking and came to the conclusion that even though he didn't have a concussion, it was still the wrong diagnosis to have him close his eyes. The light wouldn't leave him alone if he shut off its visible entry point. He could feel it deeper than that. It wouldn't give up. Finally and painfully, Sherlock realized _he_ would have to give up. Sherlock had always acted upon his thoughts impulsively and he wasn't about to break that life-long pattern any time soon. His eyelids dropped shut.

As he'd thought, the light was by no means diminished, but only for a second. The light switch flipped off with almost an audible snap and Sherlock anticipated his impending sleep.

"No! No-no-no – No, Sherlock?"

"What's happening to him?"

"He's glowing!"

"No, it's the sidewalk that's glowing…"

"Get away from it Mag!"

"SHERLOCK!" John reached for his friend's shoulders, but it was too late – Sherlock was disintegrating in a pool of light and John was losing him again. "Sherlock…" John took one last, bitter look at the man's transparent face before he disappeared forever.


	2. Chapter 2

The paramedics took the empty cot back inside the hospital as Molly Hooper ran out and saw Doctor John Watson – wasn't he that guy that helped out Scotland Yard occasionally? – looking forlorn and confused.

"I heard – there was – suicide? Did someone commit suicide?" she asked as she caught her breath.

"I – I don't…know," he replied, turning to look her in the eye.

"Weren't you standing right here when it happened?"

"Yeah, I was. I just – I can't remember."

"Well, where is he? Where's the body?"

"He's gone."

Molly put on her 'confused' face and hoped the distressed man would answer her unasked question. No such luck.

"I have to go." John turned and walked to the road, where he got a cab and told the cabbie, "221B Baker Street."

The door to the flat was open when he got there, so John wasn't surprised to see a slightly familiar figure standing in the middle of his sitting room. The tall, portly, well-dressed man stepped up to the fireplace and took a picture off the mantel.

"You don't mind if I keep this, do you? I can't imagine you'll be needing it," the man said sadly. He turned around and looked at John with a face that John knew he could place if he was given the right context. "I thought not." The familiar stranger cast his eyes downward and quietly remarked, as he put the picture in his pocket, "He would have remembered you, you know…"

The man raised his eyes again and John found his gaze locked with the other's. "What's done is done, I suppose, and you are not to blame." The man turned to the window next to him. "I don't know who is."

"Do I know you?" John asked abruptly.

"Not anymore."

If the man had decided to spout nonsense, then John would have to change tactics.

"What's that photo you took?"

With suddenly a determined and hopeful look, the man crossed the room, taking the picture back out of his pocket.

John recognized the scene from this Christmas just past. He'd taken the photo on his phone and printed it once he'd opened it as an email on his laptop. His eyes recognized all the faces in it; his landlady, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade, his ex-girlfriend – there was a face missing. He could've sworn there'd been one more person at that party. There's the corner where he was supposed to be – why was there a violin on the vacant chair?

"I don't have a violin…"

"Oh, good, then you won't mind if I take it back home with me? I – left it here, last time I visited." That strange man had picked up the bow and was fiddling about with it.

John unexplainably filled with anger and he strode over to the fellow, snatching the bow away from him and picking up the instrument. "Actually, I've been meaning to learn the violin, and I don't believe it's yours anyway."

The other man forced a smile to his face and said, "Perhaps you're right. Yes, I think it's better if everything does stay here. Well, it was good seeing you again, Doctor Watson. Replenishing, in fact. I'll be checking up on you periodically." He set off and grasped the door handle, intending to close the door behind him on his way out.

"Who are you?"

The mysterious man smiled at John again, in a more convincing way, this time. "A friend."


	3. Chapter 3

John awoke from his sleep and went down to his kitchen to find it in absolute disarray. When had all this science equipment got here? John's training in the army had made him very tidy, and this mess was not his style. Going back into the sitting room, John's eyes took in more mess that he knew wasn't his. He put his hand out to steady himself and found he was stumbling through an open doorway. When did this extra room get here? It looked lived-in. The bed wasn't made, and there were clothes spilling out of the wardrobe. John recognized the same hand in this messy room as in the kitchen and sitting room.

John stumbled back out of the room to take a pain-killer for the massive headache he could feel coming on. He supposed he'd better eat something as well. And why couldn't he stop crying?

He'd washed his face, made a coffee, and eaten an apple when Mrs Hudson showed in Greg Lestrade.

"Oh, John, dear, the mess you've made –!"

"Don't worry, Mrs Hudson, I'll clear it up." To Greg John said, "Sorry about all this, mate. Dunno how it happened."

"S'alright; happens to the best of us."

Mrs Hudson left, muttering about getting back to her programme.

"So, can I help you with something, Detective Inspector?" John asked as they sat down.

"I hope so, Detective. There's a new case I'd like your opinion on."

"Alright; yeah. Go for it."

"Right, so yesterday afternoon, Scotland Yard was called out to a burglary scene. The owner of the electronic store that was robbed told us that his son had stolen several valuable items, but we searched everywhere and could not find them. We also questioned the young man, but he refused to say anything. The kid's in custody and the man's going frantic, but we haven't any clue as to how to solve it."

"Who else was in the store at the time it happened?"

"A clerk and the old man's niece."

"How did the old man describe those two to you?"

"He said that he was satisfied with the clerk and that the only trouble he'd ever had with her was when a boyfriend had refused to leave a month or so ago. Nothing since, and that boy hadn't ever seemed suspicious to the owner; just a little too keen. About his niece we heard several glowing and flawless compliments. She's the old man's everything, and she's the most gentle and hardworking soul, and so forth. It doesn't seem to make any sense! How could the kid hide something so good that we couldn't find it?"

"How was the boy pegged as the suspect?"

"The old man lives with his niece in a small flat above the shop, and he woke up from his afternoon nap to find his son downstairs wrestling with a brand-new, top-of-the-line headset. The old man saw that an iPod, a phone, and another set of headphones were missing as well and he confronted the boy right away. Kid said he didn't know how the other things could be missing or some such nonsense. He obviously hid them and defaced the other set of headphones out of spite for his father."

"Spite–? Is that a motive I smell?"

"It sure is. The boy's spoiled rotten. Always got everything he ever wanted out of his father, so when dear ol' dad refused to pay this month's second gambling debt, the kid planned a spot of revenge. But like I said, it doesn't make any sense! We should've found those electronics by now!"

"Alright, take it easy. I'm sensing that this is more complicated than you're expecting it to be."

Greg sat back in his chair and looked like he might allow himself to be relieved if he heard some good news. "Really? What makes you say that?"

"I dunno… Why would the kid play dumb? Why not use some elaborate lie instead? And, like you said, how could he have hidden those things so well? I mean, it doesn't make sense to go and hide three, then come back to ruin another one and risk getting caught. When you questioned the others, what did they have to say about it?"

"There really wasn't much else they could tell us. The clerk had closed the shop and was out to a late lunch with friends who vouch for being with her the whole time and the niece was upstairs watching telly. The old man remembers hearing the sound of the telly intermittently during his kip."

"Well, it sounds like the niece doesn't have a really great alibi, so she might also be a suspect – or she…might just be an accomplice; you know: covering up for her cousin or pretending she didn't see him."

"You know what? I bet you're right. I mean, I knew her alibi was really weak, but she doesn't seem the type to do anything wrong. And the kid does seem guilty. But I bet he's hiding something else. I thought so, but…I couldn't put my finger on it. Thanks very much. I really appreciate it." Lestrade rose.

"Well, there you go, then." John got up too and was reminded of the huge mess he'd woken up to. "Ugh, I've got a lot of work to do…"

"I won't keep you, then. Good luck with it – and thanks again for the advice. I always get my head around a difficult case better when I ask you what you think."

"Yeah, no problem." John looked around the overwhelming room, wondering where to start. And what was he going to do with all this stuff?

"If it comes to anything, I'll let you know by sending you your usual consulting fee."

"Yeah, alright. That works."

Lestrade closed the door after himself when he left and John was left to ponder how he would manage the task ahead of him and who had inflicted it.


	4. Chapter 4

"Mrs Hudson, what's that room off the sitting room for?"

Mrs Hudson gave John a look and said as she turned away from him to tend to the tea, "A hangover will do you no good, dear, but I'm glad you're out socializing for a change instead of cooping yourself up in here all day."

"I haven't got a hangover, Mrs Hudson, and I didn't go out last night. There _is_ a room up there and someone's been using it."

"Of course there isn't. I don't know what you're on about."

"Let me show it to you. It won't take a moment."

"Well, alright, then."

Abandoning the tea, Mrs Hudson went up to the flat with John and looked at the main room with a sinking feeling. This wasn't the John Watson she knew. The John Watson she knew was a tidy, no-nonsense, sitting-down type of fellow. She might not be a psychologist, but Mrs Hudson feared that her tenant might be losing it. To her amazement, John didn't even pause to look at the mess as he determinedly crossed to the other side of the room. John put his hand against a blank space on the wall and suddenly pushed open a door. How had she not seen it there before? It didn't even blend in or anything.

"How'd you do that, then?" Mrs Hudson whispered as she made her way over to stand beside john in front of the gloomy room.

"I dunno; I just found it this morning. Do you know who lives in here?"

"I had no idea this room was here. You're the detective, John, can you tell what kind of person it might be?"

John scoffed. "You know I'm more of a doctor than a detective, Mrs Hudson." John walked up to the wardrobe, "But…erm, it's a man. All his shirts came from an expensive brand, too, so he's rich… But – all of these clothes are a year or two old, so he's not got a fashion hunger – or – he doesn't get a regular income; he's rich only in spurts."

"There you go; you see? I knew you'd find something."

"Oh, this is weird: this white one's all covered in stains."

"What's odd about that?"

"He hasn't got any stains on any of his other ones… Look, they're all in different patterns, and some of the stains look more faded. He used this shirt several times for things he knew would stain his clothes." John sniffed the shirt, hoping against his better instinct that these stains weren't what he thought they were. The most recent stains left a powder on his fingers. As a doctor, John had no trouble identifying the substance. "I think they're all bloodstains."

Mrs Hudson shuddered and then looked around, feeling a sudden chill on her back. "You don't think he's a serial killer, do you? One does read such horrible things in the news…"

Despite the alarming shirt, John could force himself to feel nothing but peace in this strange room. And he felt like a serial killer would hide his evidence better. "No; no, I don't think so… That just doesn't sound quite right."

"Oh, I've had just about enough of this creepy room." With that, Mrs Hudson left and John realized he'd found the perfect place to put all the strange things cluttering his flat. The next step was deciding how to store it all. Should he just pile it up on the bed, floor, and wardrobe? John cringed as his military neatness reminded him that this solution would be even more of a mess. John would need boxes.

"Mrs Hudson!" Said landlady hurried back up to John. "Have you got any extra boxes? Cardboard ones or – just – any boxes you don't need?"

"Actually, dear, I think I just put a couple out by my bins this morning. I got that new exercise machine in the mail; you know, the kind that you walk on, but it's got a huge wheel on the side… Why they put the parts in so many boxes is beyond me…"

"Okay, great. Yeah; thanks." The two went down together and John came back up with an armful of unfolded cardboard boxes. He found a roll of packaging tape in a kitchen drawer and set to work boxing up the mess.

John decided to avoid anything to do with chemistry, not wanting any chance encounters with doubtful substances. So, with the exception of the numerous chemistry sets, human body parts that he didn't want to deal with, and a few choice items that he couldn't force himself to put in a box, John packaged up the strange man's possessions and loaded them in the strange room.

Expecting the sense of accomplishment and order, John stepped back to survey the tidy flat and stored boxes. It took John a few minutes to realize he felt lonely without the mess to keep him company. He went into the weird extra room to lean against the boxes he'd piled in the corner and he immediately felt better. With the presence of all the junk at his back, John felt bizarrely like he'd just bumped into a friend that he'd reluctantly grown distant from during the last few years. Not only did he feel better, however, John felt hungry. It was time to eat. Acknowledging a new purpose, John went off out to a nearby Chinese for dinner.


	5. Chapter 5

Over the next few days, John slept, tended patients, visited Lestrade, caught a cold, watched telly with Mrs Hudson, and ate when he felt hungry.

At night, when he woke in a cold sweat from his nightmares of war, John went down to his sitting room and built up a fire in the grate. Feeling lonelier now than when he'd been dreaming, John got up from his seat by the fire and picked up the mysterious violin from the corner chair where he'd left it before. John plucked at the strings and realized it was out of tune.

"Kind of like my life," John mused, surprising himself with such deep thinking. He set the instrument down again and stood in the middle of the flat with the fire at his back, looking around at the still-life oil painting he seemed to be trapped in. The door to his right made the metaphorical picture's paint crack as it creakily swung open. Head still full of memories of war, John picked up a fire poker, holding it defensively by his side as he inched closer to the door. John lurched forward as a man stepped out of the shadowy room and said, "I like what you've done with the place; much tidier."

The rush of action suddenly snuffed itself out as John recognized the suited man from the other day when he had previously broken into the flat to ask for the violin and photograph. Returning the fire poker to its stand, John speculated, "It's you. What are you doing here?"

"I did say I would check up on you, Doctor Watson." The man turned and re-entered the room he'd just left and turned around to face John, who'd followed him to ask, "What – in the middle of the night?"

The man smiled like he was trying to be amused. "I just wanted to tell you that there have been a couple of clues found in the search for the missing suicide jumper. They may be able to tell us what happened and why. This sort of thing seems to be happening a lot, all over the world."

"Well, suicide is pretty common…" John gave the intruder a look that silently asked, _What's it to do with me?_

"No, not the suicides, Doctor Watson, the disappearances."

"You mean there are more people strangely disappearing?"

"Yes, they have been for centuries, apparently, and will continue to do so – taking their memories with them – until the problem can be fixed. My next lead takes me to a museum. It's got an artifact there that was recovered from ancient Rome. Somehow it might be connected to the problem, since… Well, you don't need to know that, but I'm headed there as soon as I've finished here."

"And why have you come here? I still don't understand."

"With any luck, you will remember soon that you and I are friendly – if distrustful – acquaintances." The man walked over to the room's only window, which was open and admitting a draft. "I do not deny that I am blamable for a great deal of this situation, but I am a realistic man. There are at least two others involved in the trouble that has befallen my brother." He smiled with surprise as if he'd just made an unexpected joke.

"Your brother? Who is he?"

The man turned to John and said with conviction and sincerity and said, "He is a great man." He smirked to himself and continued, "And if you ever see him again, I trust you will not tell him I said so."

"I can't recall ever meeting this brother of yours."

"No. I don't imagine you can. But I've been on your blog, and I'm pleased to know that you do remember him."

"What? That doesn't make sense. I don't think I've written about him. And who are you, anyway? Don't just say you're a friend."

"But that is precisely what I am, John. I'm trying to help a friend."

John gave the floor a doubtful look and defiantly raised his eyes back up to the obstinate person before him. "Alright, whatever. I think your museum's waiting for you."

"So it is," said the man as he walked past John, out of the room, and across the flat.

John went out after him and sat in the chair by the fire. Once the man's footsteps had carried him out of the front door, John went back up to bed inexplicably but decidedly more cheerful.


	6. Chapter 6

Mycroft had had his eye on the National Museum since he'd first found the pattern of the disappearances that were happening world-wide and across time. It wasn't the building itself that he was interested in, but rather an odd artifact on display there. Somehow it had a connection to the phenomena, but where it came into the timeline of relevance was sketchy at best. At worst, it could give one a migraine from trying to muddle through the idea that a prison cell could affect people and events before, but only after, it had been created.

Mycroft took an aspirin as he looked out the window of his limousine and decided to figure out what he would do when he confronted the person who was behind this. He had a heavy suspicion that it would be one of the Doctor's numerous enemies. It usually was. Just mix up a bit of time-muddling and alien activity in a mysterious container and you've got yourself the perfect Doctor magnet. Before long, Mycroft knew, he'd be registering another Code 9 in the records. It was only a matter of time, and Mycroft was good at waiting.

Mycroft was spared the torture of pondering impossible solutions to enigmatic problems by the sight of the museum front approaching through the window.

He dismissed his driver, saying he had arranged for transportation to give him a ride home when he was finished, and went in through the locked front doors. Why not act as though he owned the place? He had at least a small share in the display that he was interested in.

As Mycroft ventured toward his eventual goal deep within the museum, he listened as the intercom buzzed and a double-echo voice announced that an Amelia Pond's aunt was waiting for her at Reception. Good. Now Mycroft knew which of the Doctor's many faces and personalities he was dealing with. He looked over to the reception desk on his left where he saw the source of the announcement and double-voice. He smiled his half-smile at the clerk and did a barely perceptible double-take.

"Did you see that woman disappear?" Mycroft asked the clerk loudly as he walked over to the desk.

The earnest clerk looked up from a book he was reading and stammered, "N-No, sir. Who are you talking about, sir?"

"Did you not just page an Amelia Pond to Reception for the girl's aunt?"

"No. No…sir?"

Mycroft gave the man a look that said, _Just as I suspected_, and suddenly made a serious face, saying, "Well, carry on, then."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

As Mycroft made his way back to where he'd strayed from the path to his destination, he paused for a moment, looked back at the forlorn reception desk and registered something close to sadness for the disappeared man who'd sat there not one minute ago. Then he resumed his walk with new determination, but he didn't let the knowledge that events were speeding up stop him from gently swinging his umbrella back and forth as he purposefully walked on.

He arrived at the exhibit and registered the calm, dark atmosphere of the room as he stood in the doorway admiring the colossal artifact in the middle of the room. Mycroft ambled around to the right, inspecting the side of the piece for disturbances. He didn't see any, but suddenly he heard one. A disturbance in the hallway produced small, curious footsteps that carried a child in though the very entrance to the room that he'd used only a moment ago. The footsteps came very close, crept under the restricting rope around the exhibit, and paused for a moment.

The air began to vibrate as the giant, grey cube in the middle of the museum began to wake up and rotate its newly green-glowing bolts. A bright light began to illuminate the room in front of the ancient cube and Mycroft heard a female voice quietly say something from inside the cube. Heavy, unsteady footsteps carried the speaker out of the enormous prison cell and into the room. Now the woman's voice was louder and more sure as she spoke to the child about being an answer phone and the year being 1996.

Here Mycroft found absolute proof that time was being distorted. The year was most definitely not 1996. He decided to wait and listen for his cue to enter the conversation.

The child – a Scottish girl like the woman – wanted to know how the older girl had got herself into the cube in the first place. She replied vaguely, saying that it was a long – very long, apparently – story.

The button replaying the box's history was pressed and the recording announced that the box was called a Pandorica, which had been guarded by a Roman Centurion before he'd disappeared almost 70 years ago. The melodic voice was interrupted by a whirring sound which accompanied the arrival of yet another being that shouldn't have been in the museum: a dalek.


End file.
